


guilty men don’t cry, innocent men don’t run.

by AwkwardGenZKid



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, Cigarettes, Depression, F/M, Genius Tony Stark, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, I promise, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Italian Tony Stark, Misunderstood Tony Stark, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Avengers, Tony Stark Angst, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, bit reckless, tony is one lonely boi, tony is one sad boi, trying my hardest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:04:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardGenZKid/pseuds/AwkwardGenZKid
Summary: War comes in many different ways.War for land.For power.For survival.For food.For sanity.For a fresh start.It all starts the same.With an idea to create a life different from the one being lived.But a war can kill, can destroy, can turn the kindest of people into heartless machines.Now, how is the war of the mind any different?





	1. purple is just a colour

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! it’s me!
> 
> sorry for delayed posts but i’ve been super busy recently.
> 
> i will be updating some of my fics very soon but i had this fic in mind for a while and i’m really enjoying it so far.
> 
> but please do not expect me to update regularly.
> 
> thank you  
> xxx

The bruises on his cheek were purple. As a child, his favourite colour was purple. Mostly because he loved blue and red and mixing them together just felt right. He was a child. Purple didn’t hold a grudge or a memory to bitter to forget just yet. Purple was just.......purple. A colour. A pigment.

No. Purple was the colour of his favourite shoes. His laces were blue and had red bottoms but the outer part-purple. He’d slip them on in the morning just before school and Jarvis would laugh as he sauntered around the room as if he were on the catwalk of the century. He remembers how devastated he was when one day, suddenly, they disappeared. Almost as if they were never there to begin with. His father refused to buy his new purple ones and instead, he got pitch black ones with rubber laces. He hated them. He hated them so much some mornings he would go to school barefoot, because if he wore those pitch black shoes that meant he was no longer a child, who can blame him for clinging onto a childhood treasure tightly before it was swiped away from him.

Purple was the colour of Jarvis’ fancy tie. The tie he wore to dinners and party’s and fathers fancy galas. Once, Jarvis actually let Tony wear his special tie. From that day forth, Tony decided that he hated ties. They were difficult. Who could blame him, he was only five. Well, a five year old who could build circuit boards but ties aren’t machines, ties are complicated. But by the time Tony was twelve, Jarvis was gone. Fired. The man who raised him and loved him was gone, all because of Tony. And with him went the purple tie.

Purple was the colour of mothers Sunday dress. The dress she would wear while teaching him piano, slowly and carefully. Her hands holding his as she helps him play Italian lullaby’s. She would ruffle his hair and laugh as he huffs and fixes it. He’s sure he can still play the lullaby’s but it’s been years since his mother taught him so he might not remember the lyrics. He still remembers how, at seven, he watched his father and mother have an argument that escalated into father burning mothers dress by the orchids in the garden. He remembers his mother’s scream to stop and her covering his eyes. He can still smell the smoke.

Purple.

Once a colour of childish dreams and wonder. Now, the colour of bitter pain and unshed tears. And although he now dreads the colour, he has a feeling his father adores it. He paints it upon Tony’s skin as if it is a temporary tattoo. His breath still smelling like yesterday’s rum as he carefully placed the paint of purple pain across the unseen pieces of skin hidden under clothes. Tony still feels the hands hitting his face as if he were a strong punching bag. He guesses, in a way he is. To his father anyway. 

He hears his father scream “Starks are made of iron!” as he places another hot metal into his young six year old hands. His father forgets that even iron can break, mould, bend until it is unrecognisable. He remembers how his throat was torn up for days from his wailing of agony. His father didn’t care and mother only avoided his eyes. At least Jarvis bandaged his hands and kissed his forehead goodnight.

But that was a childhood that has since left his memory’s. Now, he stands in front of a mirror in the bathroom that has been trashed for weeks. Sixteen years old. Nursing a bruise on his cheek and a battered torso. It’s 3:00am and Jarvis no longer tucks him into bed, no longer kisses his forehead and promises dream to come and whisk him away from the world. Tony misses the man, misses the feeling of being loved, missed being wanted.

He washes his face and quickly leaves the bathroom, the artificial light making his headache worse. He walks to his bedroom at an agonisingly slow pace, trying to keep himself from hurting his torso further. He collapses onto his bed, exhaustion finally sinking into his bones. As he is on the brink of passing out, he feels himself reminding himself that it’s Sunday, well, technically yesterday it was Sunday, and remembers the way his mother would play piano on sundays. Now, she barely leaves her room, let alone play piano.

He shoved away the pointless memory’s of a forgotten childhood and closed his eyes. He accepts the sweet scent of sleep and falls into bliss. He decides on that moment that growing up sucks. 

He knows he should sleep, he has school in a few hours. So he does. Even though his cotton candy dreams have been plagued by nightmares, he sleeps. And damn, does it feel good.


	2. send me off without a wave

The harsh blaring of an alarm, shocks Tony back to consciousness. He groggily swipes a hand over his eyes, trying to wake himself up a bit. His other hand grabbles at the phone lying on the bedside table and turns of the blaring noise. When it goes silent, Tony breaths a sigh of relief. He almost forgets that he has school and nearly falls asleep again, only to jolt up at the remembrance. He stumbles out of bed and wobbles as he stands up, the warm sheets once covering his body now thrown onto the floor. He rushes to his wardrobe and try’s to find the most casual things he owns without it looking like he’s not trying. He went with a basic grey top with black jeans paired with a brown leather jacket. He frowned at the mirror in the trashed bathroom at his appearance. He was almost tempted to not cover his bruised cheek, almost wanted people to notice, to ask what happened, someone to care. But, he knew that wouldn’t happen. People like him don’t get asked what’s wrong. Normal people don’t sympathise with people like him.

 

He took out the old concealer his mother gifted him several months ago. The liquid was nearly gone and had gone tacky but it still covered the bruise nicely.

 

“ _God_ ,” he thought, “ _normal_ _kids_ _don’t_ _have_ _to_ _do_ _this_. _For_ _fucks_ _sake_ _Howard_.”

 

He hissed as he accidentally pressed done a bit to hard on the bruise while applying another coat of the concealer. He placed a light powder into top of it just as his stomach growled. The motion alone sent a hot pain through his stomach. With the dark bruises scattered on his torso along with the his stomach which had been empty for three days now, it hurt, a lot.

 

A small, timid knock sounded from the door. Tony was pretty sure he got whiplash from the speed he turned his neck at. He hissed slightly at the pain and rubbed his neck sheepishly.

 

“Who is it?” He called out, ignoring the crack in his voice from lack of use. The door creaked as it opened.

 

He watched as his small, timid mother fully opened his door. She was wearing a dress. It wasn’t purple though, no, it was a dark navy. It was elegant and stylish, it looked like it was made from an expensive silk, her dyed blonde hair was pinned delicately into a bun and her makeup was professional and clean. If Tony didn’t know what his mother looked like on an ordinary day, he would’ve thought she looked happy, pleased, smug even. But, by her attire, it was just another facade.

 

“Morning, my darling _bambino_.”

His mother greeted kindly.

 

She gently walked towards him, her hands instantly touching the sides of his face. Although her touch was delicate, Tony could be stop the hiss of pain that escaped his lips. His mother let out a soft gasp at the sight of his pain and covered her mouth with one hand.

 

“I am so, so sorry _mi_ _amore_. This is my fault. You should not feel such pain. You are so young. Not old enough to deal with this- this anger. I am sorry.”

 

Tony watched as his mothers soft, brown eyes, filled with horrified tears, her voice cracking as she spoke and her hand trembling. Tony held the one hand of his mother that was still pressed against his face.

 

“Mama, I am fine. If he did not hurt me, he would hurt you. I can handle it.”

 

The women scoffed as she gently pulled Tonys head down to press against hers. The mother and son closed their eyes, basking in the moment of peace and quite.

 

“But, you should not have to handle it.”

 

The mother presses her lips against her sons forehead, praying silently that god will help him, her darling bambino.

 

She pulled away. She ruffled his messy bed head and giggled fondly and he scrambled to fix it.

 

“I wish you a calm day, _la_ _mia_ _stella_.”

 

Tony’s mother said, as she reluctantly walked away.

 

“You too Mama.”

 

Tony whispered into the suddenly lonely room. He stares blankly at the door she left through for a solid three minutes before he remembered that if he didn’t leave now, he’d be late for school. Again.

 

“ _Fancula_.”

 

He cursed, as he grabbed his backpack from beside his bed and ran out the door. Although, he took his time making sure the room was locked. He couldn’t afford Howard going in their while Tony wasn’t home and while drunk again.

 

He ran dangerously down the flight of stairs to be met with the face of a kind Ana Jarvis.

 

“Hey An.”

 

“Young Sir.”

 

Jarvis bowed his head slightly, a show of respect even though Tony insisted Ana didn’t need to do that.

 

“You ready?”

 

Tony jeered as he was already half way out the front door.

 

“Have you eaten young sir?”

Ana questioned, tilting his head to the side slightly.

 

Tony furrowed his brows, trying to come up with a reasonable answer other than ‘i can’t eat or i’ll throw up because my dad beat me too hard again last night. haha whoops.’.

 

“Don’t worry An. I can get something at school. Now hurry up or i’ll be late!”

 

Tony ran to the car before Ana could ask anymore questions.

 

He leaned his head against the leather headrest of the car seat with a tired sigh.

 

“what on earth am i gonna do?”


End file.
